As he ate the last of his food, Andy wondered what had gone so wrong. A simple job – slip into the morgue, find the snitch, switch his toe tag. But while he was finessing the lock on the door, all hell had broken loose. First, there was the earthquake. It had smashed up the building but good, and collapsed every stairway and elevator – he’d looked for days, but no way out.

But that had been after the dead guy had reared up and bit him.

He’d blown the thing’s head off, but it was too late. He heard on the radio that some dead bodies had risen, attacked people, multiplied. Their bite rotted brains and made you eat people – but somehow, Andy had mostly resisted the first part.

After a few days sitting around starving, though – it’d popped into his head. Why not eat someone? It was harmless – they were dead.

But that had been eight months ago. His next idea had been that he wasn’t going anywhere – why did he need feet?

He was down to the last of his food. After all, how do you eat your own head?